


dew in the grass (the garden that you planted)

by xylodemon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: First Time, Frottage, Godswood Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-14
Updated: 2012-04-14
Packaged: 2017-11-03 15:16:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/382847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon/pseuds/xylodemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The godswood is silent, ancient trees stretching up above them; they shouldn't be doing this here, where the face is watching, where anyone could find them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dew in the grass (the garden that you planted)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [You Win or You Die Kink Meme](http://workswithwords.livejournal.com/259929.html) for the prompt _Jon/Robb, in the godswood, in front of the heart tree._ Title from Sea Wolf.

Jon is halfway to the armory when he hears Robb's voice, low and throaty and warm.

He doesn't remember her name. She's pretty in the way kitchen girls often are, round hips and a narrow waist, a soft smile and her blouse unlaced too far. She looks a little like Sansa from a distance, sharp cheekbones and reddish curls, but her hands are dusted with flour, and her laughter is too loud, too rough. The basket at her hip has Robb cornered, his back against the armory wall; Robb smiles at her, the slow and secretive smile he usually saves for Jon, and she leans closer to him, tips her face up toward his.

Jon turns before he has to see the rest, heads back across the yard with his practice sword still in his hand. 

The godswood is quiet, perfectly still, and Jon's footsteps feel loud, scrub grass and leaves and sentinel needles rustling underneath his boots. He sits in the shadow of he heart tree, the trunk at his back and his sword across his knees, watches the water in the black pool ripple softly into the mossy rocks ringing its edge. The face is above him, staring out toward Winterfell, and the air is crisp, hinting at snow.

He can still see the kitchen girl's face, her wide eyes and her parted lips.

Robb isn't like Theon; he doesn't sneak out to the brothels or fuck the serving women in the middle of the night, doesn't talk very much about girls at all -- at least, not in front of Jon. He imagines what Robb would look like kissing someone, his mouth red and his cheeks flushed, his hands at her waist, perhaps in her hair, then imagines what Robb would look like kissing _him_. He knows he shouldn't -- Robb is a boy, and his brother -- but his body likes the idea well enough, a strange weight twisting in his belly, a slow heat building under his skin.

His cock hardens quickly, and he grits his teeth, rubs the front of his breeches to relieve the pressure. He has touched himself while thinking of Robb, but only in his chambers, when everything is quiet and dark, his eyes closed and his burning hot face hidden in his sleeping furs; he won't do it now, when the heart tree is watching and the sun is bright above the heavy canopy of the godswood.

He hears a noise -- soft, distant, boots stirring the humus -- and he startles a little, heat rising in his cheeks. It's Robb, grinning as he skirts the edge of the pool, and Jon bites his lip, curls his hands in the tails of his surcoat. The sword slides quietly from his lap.

"There you are," Robb says. "I thought I saw you in the yard, but I turned around and you were gone."

Jon forces a smile, doesn't quite meet Robb's eyes. "I went for a walk."

"With a sword?" Robb asks, tilting his head. "Are you worried about grumpkins?" 

"I forgot I had it with me."

"Ass," Robb says cheerfully. He sits beside Jon, upsetting the soft pile of weirwood leaves at Jon's hip; their shoulders bump as Robb settles in, and Jon's belly knots again. "I heard there's going to be lemon cakes with supper."

"Who told you that, the kitchen girl?" Jon asks, his voice sour. "Did you kiss her?" 

"What? I -- no."

"Oh," Jon says, staring down at his hands, still fisted in his surcoat. Robb rarely fumbles his words, but Jon doesn't think he'd lie, not in front of the heart tree. "I thought -- I've seen her look at you, when we're in the yard."

Robb makes a low, impatient noise in the back of his throat. "All the girls look when we're in the yard, and not only at me. They look at you, too." 

The girls do look at Jon sometimes, but not in the same way they look at Robb and Theon. Jon has nothing to offer them; Theon could at least give them a name, even if he couldn't give them a home. Jon shifts over a little -- his cock is still hard, Robb is too close -- but Robb catches his arm and pulls him back, pulls him closer. He slides his hand up to Jon's shoulder, pausing there for a moment, then brushes his fingers over Jon's jaw, presses his thumb to the swell of Jon's lip.

Jon wants to open his mouth, flick his tongue over Robb's skin. The silence is thick and horrible; Robb is staring at him, and the sudden, burning knot in Jon's throat is making it difficult to breathe.

"Robb."

"Shut up."

Robb kisses him, soft and slow, just a gentle press of lips, almost questioning. He slides his hand to the back of Jon's neck, his fingers twisting into Jon's hair, like he's afraid Jon will pull away, and Jon gasps, his mouth falling open, heat rushing under his skin as Robb's tongue pushes in, curls against his own. He grabs the front of Robb's surcoat, tugging until Robb is nearly in his lap; they overbalance, Jon sinking back into the fallen weirwood leaves, Robb landing on top of him, his mouth at Jon's jaw and his thigh rubbing against Jon's cock.

Jon moans -- too loudly, too desperately -- his back arching, his hand knotting in Robb's hair, pulling, pulling. Robb kisses him again, harder and faster, his tongue hot and slick, bolder than before, and he nips at Jon's lip, sliding his hand to Jon's neck, tracing his thumb over the hollow of Jon's throat. Their legs are tangled, restless, and Robb's cock is hard against Jon's hip. Jon twists underneath him, arching up again, and Robb makes a rough, beautiful noise in the back of his throat, his face hidden in the curve of Jon's neck, his wet, open mouth pressed to Jon's skin.

The godswood is silent, ancient trees stretching up above them; they shouldn't be doing this here, where the face is watching, where anyone could find them. They're making too much noise, sharp breaths and low moans and the humus crackling under the weight of their bodies, but Jon wants this so badly, has been wanting it for weeks, months, and he can't stop touching Robb, scraping his fingernails down Robb's back, dragging his mouth over the line of Robb's jaw. He catches Robb by the hips, fingers digging bruises, pulling Robb down as he presses up, rubbing their cocks together, and Robb hisses, his legs shaking as he pushes himself up. 

"Jon, _Jon_ ," Robb mumbles, his eyes wide and dark, nervous. He stares at Jon for a moment, his cheeks flushed, his mouth red and wet, then rubs Jon through his breeches, curves his hand over the hard shape of Jon's cock. "I want -- let me."

"Gods," Jon says, his voice thick and hoarse. He grabs Robb's wrist, holding Robb's hand there, and he pushes up, rutting against it, trembling and shameless. "Yes, _yes_."

Robb tugs on Jon's breeches, his mouth open, his tongue flashing pink as he wets his lips. He touches Jon's cock slowly, trailing his fingers up and down the length, brushing his thumb over the head, then curling his hand around it, stroking once, twice. Jon moans and arches up into it, shoving into Robb's hand, desperate for more, for anything, and Robb leans down, kissing him, stroking him a little harder, a little faster. 

Jon twists his hand in Robb's surcoat, makes a soft, helpless noise against Robb's mouth. He's too close, too close, heat everywhere, flashing under his skin, and he wants to touch Robb, feel Robb's cock sliding in his hand, but his fingers snag in the front of Robb's breeches, shaking and useless. Robb presses closer, moaning, rolling his hips and trapping Jon's arm between them, and Jon spends with Robb's tongue in his mouth, with Robb's cock rubbing against the heel of his hand. Robb follows with a low, breathless groan, his eyes closed and his hand in Jon's hair.

Robb sits up slowly, still shaking, his hand still sticky with Jon's seed. "Jon." He frowns at Jon for a moment, then grabs the front of Jon's surcoat and pulls him up, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of Jon's mouth. "We can't -- we need to move. Father will geld us if he finds us like this."

Jon starts to fasten his breeches, but Robb stops him, pulls his hand away. 

"Wait," Robb says. "Let's go to the hot spring."

"What?" 

"We need to get cleaned up," Robb says, kissing him again, "and it will give us an excuse to be naked."


End file.
